by David Weber
"Only one?"
"That's all the Baron has reported, Your Grace."
"I see."
Black Water considered for a moment, then shrugged. They knew Haarahld had been keeping scout ships spread across the approaches to Eraystor Bay. It was the only sensible thing for him to do, after all, and Black Water wouldn't be a bit surprised to discover he was using those infernally weatherly schooners of his for the task. If that was the case, no galley was going to catch one on a day with winds as brisk as today's, but that might not always be the case. For now, it was simply confirmation of what they'd anticipated all along.
"Thank the Captain for keeping me informed," he said.
"Of course, Your Grace."
The lieutenant bowed and withdrew, and Black Water returned to his earlier thoughts. He was tempted to signal the straggling components of "his" fleet to keep better station. The probability of any signal from him accomplishing any good, however, had to be weighed against the querulousness it would reveal. Nagging ineffectually at them to close up their formation would only make it more difficult in the long run to exercise effective command.
Whatever he might think of Sharpfield and Admiral Mahndyr, both of them were experienced men, he reflected. They had to be as well aware as he was of what they were seeing, and it would be far more effective to discuss that with them face to face than to fire off signals which probably wouldn't be obeyed, anyway. Assuming, of course, that their signal officers could even recognize them as signals in the first place!
He sighed and shook his head. No doubt this had all looked far simpler from the comfort of a planning session somewhere in the Temple.
* * *
Earl Lock Island stood in his chart room, contemplating the various ships' positions marked on the chart spread out on the table before him while he scratched his chin. His aide, Lieutenant Tillyer, stood quietly to one side, watching and waiting.
The earl gazed at the chart for several more seconds, his eyes focused on something only he could see, then nodded.
"I think it's time to go back topside, Henrai."
"Yes, My Lord." Tillyer reached the chart room door before the earl and stood aside, holding it open for his superior. Lock Island smiled at him and shook his head as he stepped through it, but the smile faded quickly as he climbed the short ladder to the aftercastle.
"My Lord!"
Captain Sir Ohwyn Hotchkys, Tellesberg's commanding officer, saluted as Lock Island appeared. The earl returned his salute a bit more casually, then gazed up at the masthead pendant.
"Any change in our friends' formation?" he asked.
"No, My Lord. Not according to the schooners' reports, at any rate."
"Good." Lock Island turned away from the pendant and smiled unpleasantly at the captain. "In that case, Ohwyn, I believe it's time to put your signal parties to work. Here's what I want to do. . . ."
* * *
"Pardon me for interrupting, Your Grace, but I think Baron Tanlyr Keep's sighted something else."
Black Water looked up from his belated breakfast as Sir Kehvyn Myrgyn stepped into Corisande's great cabin.
"What do you mean, 'sighted something else,' Captain?" the duke asked, chocolate cup hovering in midair.
"I'm not certain, Your Grace," Myrgyn said a bit apologetically. "He's shaken out the reefs in his squadron's sails, and he's gone to oars, as well."
"Did he make any signals at all?" Black Water demanded, setting the cup down.
"Not that we could make out, Your Grace. Of course, he's far enough ahead of us that he might have signaled something without our spotting it."
Black Water scowled and pushed his chair back from the table. He'd known Tanlyr Keep was edging steadily, if gradually, further and further ahead, but he hadn't expected the baron's squadron to get that far out in front.
He strode on deck, Myrgyn following at his shoulder, and climbed to the top of the aftercastle.
Tanlyr Keep's ships were completely hull-down over the horizon from Black Water's position on Corisande's deck. All the duke could see was their sails, and even they were dipping towards the hard, clear line of the horizon, but it was obvious the baron had, indeed, shaken the reefs out of his galleys' big, single square mainsails. With the wind out of the northwest, it was broad on Tanlyr Keep's starboard quarter, and he was taking full advantage of it.
"He's under oars, as well, Captain?" Black Water asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," Myrgyn confirmed, and the duke grimaced. That meant Tanlyr Keep was probably moving almost twice as fast as any of the rest of the allied force.
"Signal him to return to his station," he said.
"At once, Your Grace," Myrgyn replied, and turned to give the orders.
Another of the flagship's lieutenants sprang to obey the instructions, but Myrgyn's expression wasn't hopeful when he turned back to Black Water.
"He's far enough ahead I don't know if he'll even see the signal, Your Grace."
"I know." Black Water gripped his hands together behind him, rocking gently up and down on his toes while he considered. Then he looked astern, where the Emerald and Chisholm contingents had strayed even further out of position. Finally, he looked up at the sun.
The basic plan for today's sortie called for the fleet to return to its anchorage before nightfall. To do that, especially with the wind where it was, they were going to have to reverse course within the next three hours, at the outside. Given the speed Tanlyr Keep's squadron was making, Corisande and the rest of the Corisandian galleys wouldn't be able to overtake him, no matter what they did, and the baron knew when he was supposed to return to port.
The duke growled a silent mental curse. It was a comprehensive curse, directed at his laggardly allies, his . . . overly enthusiastic squadron commander, and at himself, for not keeping Tanlyr Keep's leash shorter. But curses wouldn't undo anything that had already happened. Signaling the baron to resume his station was all he could do, since he couldn't overtake Tanlyr Keep, anyway. And that being the case, he might as well do what he could to bolster his own reputation for phlegmatic confidence.
"Well, Captain Myrgyn," he said, after moment. "If he sees the signal, he sees the signal, and if he doesn't, he doesn't." He shrugged. "We'll be reversing course in the next few hours, anyway, and I still have an appointment with breakfast. If you'll excuse me?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
The captain bowed, and Black Water produced a confident smile as he headed back towards the breakfast which no longer seemed nearly so appetizing. But, appetizing or not, he intended to eat every last bite of it . . . and make certain everyone aboard his flagship knew he had.
* * *
"We've just received another signal from Commodore Nylz, My Lord," Lieutenant Tillyer said.
"Ah?"
Earl Lock Island looked up from the fried chicken he was hungrily contemplating. The fleet hadn't been at sea long enough yet for fresh food to become a dreamed of, unobtainable luxury, but no seaman worth his salt ever turned up his nose at a decent meal.
"Yes, My Lord. He reports that the squadron pursuing him is still overhauling. In fact, it's into long cannon shot."
"I see." Lock Island rose from the table and stepped out onto Tellesberg's spacious sternwalk. The railed platform ran the full width of the galley's high, ornate stern and wrapped around either quarter. The admiral stood for a moment, gazing up at the sky, gauging visibility and the remaining hours of daylight.
"I believe it's time, Henrai," he said, returning to the table and reaching for a drumstick as he seated himself once more. "Signal Commodore Nylz to engage at his discretion."
* * *
"My Lord, the enemy—"
Donyrt Qwentyn, Baron Tanlyr Keep, had been gazing astern, where the white sails of Duke Black Water's main body had disappeared into the whitecapped blue of the bay, while he wondered why the duke hadn't cracked on more speed in response to his own earlier signals. Now he wheeled towards the lieutenant who'd spoken just as
a sudden dull thud sounded across the water. Sudden clouds of smoke from the sterns of the six Charisian galleys he'd been pursuing for the last several hours, and the white, skipping splashes of round shot plowing across the waves obviated the report the lieutenant had been about to make.
"Good!" the baron barked, and wheeled to Thunderbolt's commander. "It looks like they've figured out they can't get away, Captain. Now let's go get them!"
* * *
Commodore Kohdy Nylz watched critically as his stern chasers opened fire. Despite the whitecaps, it was easy to spot where the shots had plunged into the sea, quite close to their targets, and he nodded in satisfaction.
"I hope the gun crews remember to fire slowly," one of HMS Kraken's lieutenants murmured.
The commodore glanced at the youthful officer, but it was evident the lieutenant didn't realize he'd spoken aloud. Nylz considered replying to him anyway, then changed his mind. It would only embarrass the youngster, and the lieutenant hadn't said anything Nylz wasn't thinking.
His squadron had been selected for this particular maneuver because its artillery had been improved considerably. When Prince Cayleb and Admiral Staynair concentrated their efforts on the most advanced galleons, work on less advanced ships had been temporarily abandoned. The guns for some of those incomplete galleons had already been delivered, however, and Earl Lock Island and King Haarahld had seen no reason to leave them sitting uselessly ashore in an arsenal somewhere. Which meant Kraken and the other five galleys of her squadron had traded in their old-fashioned guns for the new-model weapons, with long krakens mounted fore and aft and carronades replacing falcons on their broadsides.
If everything went according to plan, the ten Corisandian ships pursuing him were going to find out about that shortly, but it wouldn't do to alert them too soon.
The commodore looked astern at his enemies, and his smile turned nastier as he thought about what was coming up from the east-southeast under oars alone.
* * *
"We've got the bastards now!" Tanlyr Keep exulted.
The Charisian galleys had obviously been assigned to keep a protective eye on their scout ships in case Duke Black Water had decided to send out a few fast ships of his own to pounce upon them. But the "protectors" clearly hadn't realized the allied fleet was actually at sea. They'd continued towards him, as if seeking to make positive identification, until he'd managed to close to within no more than ten miles.
They'd turned to run then, but one of them had suffered damage aloft making the turn. It looked as if her weather sheet had carried away, and her single big sail had flogged and flapped furiously for several minutes before her crew had been able to get it back under control. That had cost her precious speed, and his own ships had charged forward in pursuit.
Her consorts, instead of abandoning her to her own resources, had reduced speed to stay in company with her. They shouldn't have. The six of them were each individually bigger than any of Tanlyr Keep's ships, but he had ten galleys to their six, and heavy drafts from the Corisandian Army had been put aboard to serve as marines. More than that, his ships' smaller size made them faster under oars.
He'd taken advantage of that, going to the sweeps and adding their power to the power of his ships' sails, and the gap between him and the fleeing Charisians had slowly but steadily narrowed. Now it was time to—
"Deck, there!" The shout echoed down from the crow's-nest atop the mast. "More ships, bearing east-southeast!"
Tanlyr Keep froze, staring up at the lookout.
"I make it at least fifteen galleys!" the seaman shouted down. "They're coming up fast under oars!"
* * *
"Ah, they've seen the Earl!" Commodore Nylz observed as the galleys which had been pursuing him so doggedly suddenly wavered in their steady course. They were swinging wildly around, turning back up to the north, but that took them almost directly into the wind.
"Turn us around, Captain," he said to Kraken's commander.
* * *
"It looks like it worked, My Lord," Captain Hotchkys observed.
"So far, at least," Lock Island agreed.
The pursuing Corisandian galleys had dropped their masts. Lock Island's own ships had been waiting with their sails already down while Commodore Nylz' squadron baited the trap. With their sails and yards sent down to leave only their bare, white-painted masts, Lock Island's twenty-four galleys had been far harder to spot; indeed, they'd been effectively invisible at any range much over ten miles or so. And, as Lock Island had anticipated, the Corisandians' attention had been focused upon their intended prey. No one had even noticed him until he'd closed to a range of less than seven miles, sweeping in on the Corisandians from their eastern flank.
Nylz' ships were turning upon their pursuers, as well. The range there had fallen to under two miles even before Nylz opened fire. And, just as Lock Island had hoped, the Corisandian rowers were already badly fatigued from their long, grueling pursuit. Apparently it hadn't occurred to them to wonder why Nylz hadn't been rowing nearly as hard as they had.
The Charisian ships had cleaner bottoms, as well as fresher rowers, and Nylz was closing quickly. Lock Island wouldn't be able to get into action with the Corisandians as soon as the commodore, but his galleys—coaxed carefully into position by signals from the scouting schooners and Nylz himself—would be up with the enemy within two hours. Probably less, if Nylz could manage to slow them down a bit.
Kraken and her squadron mates had increased their rate of fire now that the trap had sprung. They were careful not to fire as rapidly as they could have—Lock Island and Nylz had no intention of letting Black Water realize just how dangerous Charisian artillery had just become—but as Lock Island watched, one of the Corisandian galley's starboard oars flailed in sudden confusion as a round shot pitched into them in an eruption of spray and splinters. At least four of the long sweeps shattered, splintered ends flying, and the earl could picture only too well what the butt ends of those shattered oars must have done as they flailed wildly about, breaking ribs and arms and cracking skulls.
The confusion was only brief, but more round shot were plunging into the water around their targets, or striking home with deadly force.
"Signal from Speedy, My Lord," one of Tellesberg's midshipmen announced.
"Read it," Lock Island commanded.
"-'Enemy van bears north-northwest my position, distance eighteen miles, speed seven knots,'- " the midshipman read from the piece of paper in his hand.
"Thank you," Lock Island said, and cocked his head as he consulted his mental chart. He couldn't see the schooner himself from deck level, but the masthead lookout and signal party could. She was still too far away for her signals to be read directly, so they were being relayed by her sister ship North Wind. Which put the main body of the straggling enemy fleet at least twenty-five miles—probably more—astern and directly to windward of Nylz' pursuers.
Those ships were making possibly three or four knots, while his own were moving at at least six, and cutting the angle to boot. If the rest of the enemy fleet was making good the seven knots Speedy's captain estimated, then it would take at least two and a half hours for its most advanced units to reach the ships he was pursuing.
If they realized what was happening in time—and moved quickly and decisively enough—it could get tight, but not, he thought grimly, tight enough to save his intended prey.
* * *
"That's the last of them, Your Grace," Captain Myrgyn grated as a fresh pillar of smoke billowed upward.
"So I see, Captain," Duke Black Water replied.
He forced his own voice to come out calm, but he knew he wasn't fooling anyone. Especially not Myrgyn.
He gripped his hands together behind him tightly enough to hurt and inhaled deeply.
"Very well, Captain," he said, "there's no point continuing the pursuit. Take us home."
"Yes, Your Grace," Myrgyn said heavily, and turned away to begin giving the necessary orders.
&nb
sp; Black Water glared across the miles of water still separating him from the last of Tanlyr Keep's galleys. It would take him a good hour and a quarter to reach that flaming hulk, by which time it would have burned to the waterline and vanished beneath the waves. Nor was there any point in pursuing the Charisians, who'd already turned for home with the wind behind them, a good headstart, and—for all he knew—the rest of their accursed fleet waiting to ambush anyone who pursued them.
Even assuming he could overtake them at all, it would be a night battle, with all the confusion and chaos that implied. And it would have been his galleys—his sixty remaining galleys—alone against whatever he encountered, because neither the Emerald nor the Chisholm squadrons could possibly have made up the gap which had opened between them and him.
A part of him cried out to continue the chase anyway, to avenge the losses and humiliation which had been visited upon him. But the coldly logical part of him knew better.